She sat down in an armchair, leaned backwards, and began to hum an air—­la, la, la.

“Answer me.  Come!”

“And if I decline?”

“You will do well to behave yourself,” I said; and, going to the window, I closed it, and slipped the catch.

“I hope the gendarmes will be here soon,” she murmured amiably; “I am rather tired of waiting.”  She affected to stifle a yawn.

“Yvette,” I said, “you know as well as I do that you have committed a serious crime.  Tell me all about Deschamps’ jealousy of your mistress; make a full confession, and I will see what can be done for you.”

She put her thin lips together.

“No,” she replied in a sharp staccato.  “I have done what I have done, and I will answer only the juge d’instruction.”

“Better think twice.”

“Never.  It is a trick you wish to play on me.”

“Very well.”  I went to the door, and opened it wide.  “You are free to go.”

“To go?”

“It is your mistress’s wish.”

“She will not send me to prison?”

“She scorns to do anything whatever.”

For a moment the girl looked puzzled, and then: 

“Ah! it is a bad pleasantry; the gendarmes are on the stairs.”

I shrugged my shoulders, and at length she tripped quietly out of the room.  I heard her run down-stairs.  Then, to my astonishment, the footfalls approached again, and Yvette re-entered the room and closed the door.

“I see it is not a bad pleasantry,” she began, with her back to the door.  “Mademoiselle is a great lady, and I have always known that; she is an artist; she has soul—­so have I. What you could not force from me, neither you nor any man, I will tell you of my own free will.  You want to hear of Deschamps?”

I nodded, half-admiring her—­perhaps more than half.

“She is a woman to fear.  I have told you I used to be her maid before I came to mademoiselle, and even I was always afraid of her.  But I liked her.  We understood each other, Deschamps and I. Mademoiselle imagines that Deschamps became jealous of her because of a certain affair that happened at the Opera Comique several years ago—­a mere quarrel of artists, of which I have seen many.  That was partly the cause, but there was something else.  Deschamps used to think that Lord Clarenceux was in love with her—­with her!  As a fact, he was not; but she used to think so, and when Lord Clarenceux first began to pay attention to mademoiselle, then it was that the jealousy of Deschamps really sprang up.  Ah!  I have heard Deschamps swear to—­But that is nothing.  She never forgave mademoiselle for being betrothed to Lord Clarenceux.  When he died, she laughed; but her hatred of mademoiselle was unchanged.  It smouldered, only it was very hot underneath.  And I can understand—­Lord Clarenceux was so handsome and so rich, the most fine stern man I ever saw.  He used to give me hundred-franc notes.”